Guilty, With An Innocent Smile
by SimplyPassingBy
Summary: It was supposed to be a fun date night with Ash. However, Marceline finds herself standing alone outside of a bar, while Ash drinks inside - In the warmth. Well, at least until the door opens, and a shaggy haired pretty boy asks her for some change to use the pay phone. (AU set in a darker light, so to speak. Rated M for many reasons. (Marcelee all the way.))


_**Please Read, Before Reading:  
><strong>_  
>Hello, readers. This is going to be very different from any other MarcelineMarshall Lee FanFic. First off, it is set in an Alternate Universe. Second, Marshall is going to have a... Er... Interesting line of work, you'll know what I mean soon enough. Third, I want this story to focus more on the inner conflict Marshall goes through trying to make a living in the world balancing his job, morals, values, and personal relationships. Last, but not least, this story will involve mature materials, such as: Violence, murder, vulgar language, sexual content, suicide, torture, and criminal activities. The story will include these scenarios listed previously, but is not limited to only those forms of mature material, as other mature scenarios that are not listed may occur later on. I don't know what all I will put in here, to be honest.

Any act of violence, criminal acts, or murder, portrayed in this story are purely fiction. I guarantee I do not speak from experience here.

All of this being said, I hope anyone who finds this story, enjoy the read. Thank you for your time.

* * *

><p>"<em>You can get much further with a kind word and a gun, then you can with just a kind word alone.<em>" **_- Al Capone  
><em>**

* * *

><p>Marshall's cigarette burns to the filter. "Fucking shit." He mutters, brushing the burning cherry off of his pants, before tossing the filter out of the window of his car, and rolling the window up.<p>

It is a beautiful morning.

The birds are chirping, the clouds block the sunlight just the way Marshall likes, and the neighborhood is quiet - Almost too quiet. Marshall waits patiently in his car, watching the world around him revolve. Men, women, and children going through their everyday routines. Their simple-minded, brainwashing, and non-progressive routines.

"I hate all of them." Marshall mumbles, reclining his seat as far back as it can go. He closes his eyes, and rubs his temples, attempting to find some peace of mind.

It is as if Marshall Lee lives in a bubble. In his own personal space, lives an alternate reality to the one every other resident within the Triple-A lives in. There are no such things as _good deeds _or _good people,_ as a matter of fact. Only, "Hey, I expect something from you later," or "Look how much better I am than all of you." The world was not black-and-white in Marshall's eyes, no. It was vibrant and full of color - Colors being metaphors for behavior, of course. As simpletons, most people see the world in black or white. Either good, or bad. Marshall perceives the world as a full spectrum of colors - There is always some good in evil, and some evil in good.

Marshall begins to doze off, when he hears a knock on his window. He groans, and opens his eyes. Seeing Kyle, he sighs and unlocks his car. Kyle opens the passenger side door, and takes a seat.

"Sorry to wake you, glamour queen." Kyle snorts.

"Fuck you, man. Your ass was taking so long, I thought I was actually going to get some quality sleep." Marshall mumbles. "Let's just go get this over with."

"Fuckin' A man, lets do it."

Marshall Lee Abameer often catches a lot of attention from his business associates for the way he dresses, and presents himself. Long shaggy hair, piercings, and tight pants don't sit well in the Triple-A, for some reason. It never really bothers him though. He has proved time and time again that he is a top earner, and isn't afraid to get the job done. In fact, he views himself as one of the most competent among his business associates.

Marshall stops the car abruptly in a drive way of some random Joe-Shmoe, living a casual, brainwashed, life in the suburbs outside of Augustus. Marshall rubs his temples.

"Well, let's get this done." Marshall says, neutrally, beginning to open his door.

"Wait, hold up, before we go. How much is this guy in for? Just refresh my memory, you know, just in case this gets words-y, I don't look like a complete jackass." Kyle asks, with a perplexed look.

"Fuck, Kyle. He's in for twenty thousand, plus interest, so twenty five thousand. He's overdue by two months." Marshall shakes his head slightly.

"Alright, Yeah. Yeah, lets do this." Kyle smiles.

Marshall starts exiting the vehicle, when he is stopped by the sound of a pistol slide, chambering a round. Marshall quickly sits back down, and shuts his door, catching Kyle by complete surprise.

"Kyle, what the actual _fuck_ are you doing?" Marshall hisses.

"What? You know, just in case things go bad." Kyle shrugs, tucking the semi-automatic nine millimeter handgun into his waistline.

"Things won't go bad, as long as you don't go waving that thing around. Don't be a fucking idiot."

"Fine, I'll only draw if he starts trying to feed us bullshit, but I won't shoot unless he gets all aggressive, and shit." Kyle smirks. "No biggie."

"Yes. Big biggie. Leave the gun here-" Marshall begins to protest, when he is interrupted by the crack of a gun, and the sound of lead hitting cold metal - His cars cold metal, to be exact. "_**Shit!**_"

Marshall shifts into reverse, and slams his foot down on the gas pedal, causing a brief spin out before the car actually starts to move. As he is backing out, he notices a woman standing in the doorway of the house, who's parking lot they were in - Presumably the wife. She was holding a pump action shotgun at her waist, and attempting the load another shell into the chamber.

Marshall slides as low as he can in the drivers seat, and grabs Kyle's shirt attempting to pull him down too. Kyle, however, has another plan in mind. He rolls his window down, and begins shooting semi-accurately - As accurate as one can be, shooting from a moving car, traveling away from the target - at the woman in the doorway.

She chambers another round, and raises the shotgun. Kyle is squeezing the trigger as fast as he can, but he cannot seem to hit his mark. "Kyle, get down! Fuck!" Marshall screams, whipping the car ninety degrees, and shifting into drive.

It is too late. It is as if Marshall is experiencing this moment in slow motion. Kyle squares his shoulders to the woman, to get a better shot. He brings both hands up to grip the handgun. He applies more pressure on the gas pedal, as if it wasn't already against the floorboard. The tires squeal, but the car doesn't move, not yet. A narrow view around Kyle's left shoulder reveals paneling being littered with small bullet holes, as Kyle continues to fire. Marshall sees half of the woman, from his perspective. She is shouldering the shotgun, and taking aim at the car - At them. Marshall's ears are ringing from the repetitive discharge of the pistol in a confined space, but no one can miss the distinct sound of a shotgun going off.

Suddenly the car begins to move forward, picking up speed. The world around Marshall begins to speed up, back to normal. Kyle slumps backwards, and his head falls into Marshall's lap.

"Shit, shit, **_shit_**!" Marshall yells, trying to focus on driving, and getting out of the area, before police begin swarming the site.

"She... She fucking shot me, man." Kyle mumbles, through coughs and gurgling sounds.

"Shut the fuck up, just shut the fuck up! You're going to be alright." Marshall demands. "We're going to get you to Goodies. You;re going to be okay."

Marshall doesn't take his eyes off the road, but slides his hand under Kyle's head, and into his pocket to grab his cellphone. He jerks it out, and flips it open. Glancing down very briefly, he clicks the three number key, and clicks call. The phone rings for what seems like a lifetime.

"Hello, who is this?" Says the voice on the phone, through yawns.

"No time, Susie. It's Marshall. Kyle's been fucked up, and I'm fifteen minutes away from your place. Get your shit ready, I'm going to be there in five minutes!" Marshall roars.

"Oh shit! Okay! What happ-" Marshall hangs up, and tosses the cheap flip phone out of the window. He focuses on driving, he refuses to look down at Kyle.

"Fuck man, just hang in there. You're going to be fine, Goodie is going to take care of you. Just stay with me." He rambles, accelerating on the straight stretch.

Kyle gurgles, and violently coughs coughs blood like a fountain.

* * *

><p>Marshall smokes very impatiently, as he watches Goodie examine Kyle in her garage. Goodie hasn't said anything yet, but Marshall can tell by a slight head shake that there is nothing she can do for him. Nothing at all.<p>

"I'm sorry, Marshall... There is nothing I can do here." Goodie says softly.

"There has to be something!" Marshall rages, for no particular reason. He knows she is right, but the rage finds its way out of his mouth.

"Well, maybe if he wasn't going around trying to be a _gangster_, this shit wouldn't happen!" Goodie retorts, with a slight nose twitch.

Marshall turns away from her and takes a long drag from his cigarette. His exhale is a mixture of smoke and a sigh. Goodie slowly approaches him from behind, and puts her hand on his shoulder.

"Marshy, I'm sorry. I..." She trails off.

"You what, Goodie? You are 'worried' about me?" Marshall snaps, turning around to face her.

"Yes!" Goodie shouts. "I am worried about you. You know I don't like you being affiliated with these people! I told you two years ago this was a bad idea! Remember? You weren't allowed over here for a year?"

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever! You were just worried me and Tara would get back together, and I'd drag her into this shit." Marshall snorts, and shakes his head.

"Marshall Lee. You know that is not true." Goodie rubs his arm. "I just. I watched you grow up for five years, before you got involved in this shit. You are like a son to me."

"Shit, does every visit have to turn into this same old shit? _**There is no way for a guy like me to make a living here! **_If I didn't have the Club, I wouldn't be alive. I, quite literally, would have died on the streets as a beggar." Marshall huffs.

"Marshall..."

"And don't give me any shit about it. You know its true."

Marshall and Goodie stand facing one another, each taking turns looking at the other, while the opposite glares away, trying to find something interesting on the wall. Both sigh. Marshall rubs his temples.

"Look. I need to get going, I need to take care of this." Marshall mumbles.

"Okay. Let me know how you're handling things." Goodie fakes a smile.

"Sure thing." Marshall pats her on the shoulder, as he walks past her.

"Marshall..." Marshall stops in his tracks, and sighs. "What?"

"Did you know him well?"

"Not really. He a new guy, about a month into it. This was his first big thing." Marshall replies. "By the way, since you stopped me. Do you have any plastic wrap in the kitchen?"

* * *

><p>Marshall sits with his legs dangling inside a freshly dug hole in the middle of the woods. The cigarette he is smoking taste stale. The sun barely makes it through the thick canopy of the trees, which is nice. Marshall doesn't feel like being in the sun right now, anyway.<p>

"You know, I've never seen anyone _actually_ die." Marshall says softly, as if Kyle could respond. "It's strange."

It's as if Marshall's entire life is being put into perspective. The talk with Goodie runs through his head. The harsh reality that he has no real skill sets, because he slacked off in school and never actually learned anything. The military was an alternative, but they wouldn't take him. He is the last male in his family, able to produce children to keep the bloodline alive. He could work a mediocre job, nine to five, realistically. But mentally, and emotionally, it would destroy him. Marshall would rather commit suicide than work a mediocre job his whole life - A grim reality that was all too close for him, after Ashley died in a drunk driving accident a few years back. '_This **is** my only option._' He tells himself. '_It's either this or suicide._' But the thought always lingers in his mind, '_If that's the way I perceive this world, what does that mean? Is this just a form of slow suicide?_' Marshall's mental debates are so vigorous, and long term, that he often has to call for a recess and sleep, from mental exhaustion.

Marshall stands and walks over to Kyle's body, which is wrapped in a layer of plastic wrap. With a sigh, he drags the body closer to the hole. After a quick glance around, Marshall nudges the body into the hole with his foot. Milliseconds later, Kyle's body thuds as it hits the cold, damp dirt at the bottom of an unmarked grave.

"One last one?" Marshall smirks, throwing a cigarette onto Kyle's body, before lighting his own.

Puff after puff, and shovel full after shovel full, the ground slowly begins to take back Kyle S. Hinckley. Ashes to ashes, dirt to dirt.

Taking special care to put the grass patches back on top of the recently dug grave, Marshall sighs. "What the hell am I doing with my life." With a weak laugh, and a rub of the temples, he puts that thought behind him.

* * *

><p>"What the fuck happened?" Micheal asks, rubbing his facial hair.<p>

"We were going to collect from the place outside Augustus, and some dumb bitch pulled on us, and Kyle took it straight to the chest." Marshall explains, in a low tone.

Elliot shakes his head, "Shit. What the fuck. That's a quiet neighborhood."

"Yeah, I know." Marshall sighs, ashing his cigarette.

"What the fuck were you two doing? How did you let a broad slip up on you with a fucking twelve gauge?" Micheal growls.

"Shut the fuck up. Don't fucking break my balls, we were there to pick up like you said. It was supposed to be in-and-out. You never fucking told me his bitch was fucking crazy." Marshall's shouts, flicking half of a cigarette, and squaring up to Michael.

"You shut the fuck up, fag pants. I'm not the one who let a broad pull on me, and shoot my friend!"

Marshall face twists to one of hatred. His fists clinch, and he rears back to throw a punch. Elliot steps in and pushes Marshall back, before any physical damage can be dealt. "Calm the fuck down, you two!" Elliot demands.

Marshall lowers his arm, and spits on the ground in Michael's direction. Michael's teeth grit and his eye twitches. There is a moment of silent hatred between the two. "You didn't even really know the guy." Michael says, through clinched teeth. "You got no right to be this pissed off." Marshall tries to step towards Michael, but Elliot pushes him back again.

"What, just because I didn't know the dude, I can't be shaken up because he died in my fucking lap, making a collection for you? Just because you're a Luie now, you have to be a fucking cunt?" Marshall hisses.

"Watch your fucking mouth, kid! You know all collections go up to the Capos, and keep going up. It wasn't _my_ collection, you fuck." Michael snarls, stepping forward and meeting resistance, by the name of Elliot.

"Kid? _Kid_!? You are two years older than me, don't give me that bullshit!" Marshall snarls, through gritted teeth.

"Alright, alright. Calm the fuck down, you two. Shit." Elliot grumbles.

Michael spits, and walks away. Throwing his arms in the air. He takes a seat in his car, and slams the door. Now, he just sits in the driver seat, waiting for Elliot, staring at Marshall.

"That dude is way out of line." Marshall mutters.

"Hey, watch it. I don't care who's son you are, and neither does he. You respect his position, and don't say shit like that. It's not your place to decide who is out of line. Work your way up, and then you can decide who's out of line. Till then, keep your mouth shut. Understood?" Elliot rants, giving Marshall a stern look, and a slight head nod. "Go have a drink at the Inferno. Have one for Kyle."

* * *

><p>The legal drinking age may be twenty-one, but out of respect for his father, and his stature in the business, Marshall is allowed drinks at nineteen from the Inferno. A small pub in the edge of Arellie. The Inferno is where Marshall finds himself at least three days out of the week, if not more. Marshall says he doesn't have a drinking problem, however his problem is that he has no problem with drinking. The problem, like today in particular, is that Marshall sits in the bar, and casually drinks for hours. Almost as if when he's in the Inferno, the world around he moves without him.<p>

Marshall finds himself appalled by the usual bar sluts, he usually flirts with, and occasionally takes home for a night. '_What the fuck has gotten into me?_' He thinks, rubbing his temples.

Marshall is in the process of ordering another drink, when a slight disturbance catches his eye. Some mohawked guy is arguing with a small girl, with long black hair. Marshall attempts to listen in, over the casual bar chatter.

"You always do this..." She says.

"Babe, common, let me get a few drinks." He replies.

"I don't want to stand out here, though. It's cold." She argues, attempting to walk in, but meeting the bouncers arm. "Please, can we just go home. It's getting late."

'_Late? It's only... Oh shit, it is getting late._' Marshall mumbles to himself, in his own head. Marshall turns back to the conversation he was listening to, but finds that the door is shut, and the mohawk guy is at the bar. He scowls at the man, but does his best not to let it get to him. He just takes another sip of his drink and turns the other cheek, despite the hatred that wells inside him for disrespectful men. He's dipped into enough trouble for the day.

Some may find it strange that Marshall would retain morals, being affiliated with the kind of people he associates with, or being in the business he is in, but he does. He won't lift a finger to a child, nor to a woman. And he absolutely detests people who treat women with disrespect. Something clicked inside of him, something strong, after Ashley died. All the times he treated her less than perfect, any time he blew her off, or any time he just didn't feel like going out into town with her he regrets immensely. It is not a short lived, or easily curable plague. It's a long term mental illness that follows him, and slips into his thoughts every waking moment his brain is not occupied, otherwise. Sometimes it gets to him when he isn't even awake.

Twenty minutes, or so, pass and mohawk is still sitting at the bar, with his girl outside in the evening cold. '_Fuck it._' Marshall finally decides, gulping the last of his drink down, with a slight cringe. He goes to make his way to the door, when he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket. '_Shit._' He thinks, fishing for his phone. He checks the caller ID. It's Elliot.

"Hey, what's up?" Marshall answers, casually.

"Where are you?" Elliot questions.

"I'm at the Inferno, getting some drinks."

"Shit, since this morning? Well, never mind that. Call me back from a pay phone, and hurry." Elliot demands, and hangs up the phone.

'_What the fuck? What's up now?_' Marshall wonders to himself, making his way over to the door. He pushes the door open with little resisitence, and instantly feels a cold breeze against his face. '_Fuck it's cold._' Instantly, Marshall notices the poor girl, standing in the cold, rubbing her hands together, and looking incredibly pissed off. Although, she is a very attractive girl. Long black hair, porcelain skin, and near a perfect build. Marshall smiles.

"Hey, excuse me. Do you have any change you can spare?" He asks, as politely as he can.

"Who, me?" The girl asks, giving him an eyebrow.

"No, no. Sorry. I was talking to my imaginary friend. You wouldn't believe how confused people get when I do that." Marshall smirks.

The girl giggles a little bit, revealing a lovely smile. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever. I have like, one-seventy-five in quarters, and you only get them because your sarcasm is on point."

Marshall laughs, and accepts the money from the girl. "Thanks, doll." He winks.

The pay phone is on the edge of the building, for privacy reasons, Marshall puts the money in the slot, dials the number, and stretches the line around the corner, into the alleyway. After several rings, the phone connects, to another payphone.

"Alright, El, what gives? Whats up?" Marshall starts off the conversation.

"You know that collection issue you had this morning, yeah well, sober up. We are dealing with it tonight, at eleven. That's five hours to get sober. Be at the Nightosphere at ten-thirty. Don't be late. This is _your_ mess, after all."

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever. I'll be there." Marshall huffs, and rounds the corner to hang up the payphone.

With a quick rub of the temples, Marshall heads back for the door, but stops to talk to the mystery girl, hanging around outside of the bar.

"So. What gives, why are you out here all alone?" Marshall asks.

"Who, me? Or your imaginary friend?" The girl smirks. Marshall smiles, and nods his head at her. "You."

The girl sighs. "Ah you know, my boyfriend is inside. He shouldn't be much longer."

"So... You can't get in, huh?" Marshall says, more of a matter-of-fact, than a question.

With another sigh, and a shrug of her shoulders, the girl replies. "No. You have to be twenty-one to get in bars around here. What's an eighteen year old to do?" She laughs dryly.

"Well, you don't have to be..." Marshall smiles. The girl tilts her head and raises an eyebrow, and that's enough to send the message.

"I'm only nineteen, and I've been drinking since like, noon." Marshall shrugs, coolly.

"Oh, Mr. Cool Guy over here." The girl laughs.

"Well, I was going to get you in, but if you want to act like that..." He laughs.

"Jokes on you anyway, I didn't want to go in anyway." She says in a mocking tone, sticking her tongue out.

Marshall laughs at her, and motions with his hand. "Common, I'll get you in. Who's your boyfriend?"

"Thanks, I guess." She replies, sarcastically, trying to hide her enthusiasm. "And my boyfriend is Ash. You can't miss him, he has a mohawk and shit."

Marshall opens the door, and the bouncer puts his hand out to stop the girl. "You've been told, you can't come in here." The bouncer reiterates for the hundredth time tonight. "Don't worry, Rick. She's with me. She won't cause any trouble. Right?" Marshall vouches for her, turning he head to look at her. She shrugs her shoulders, to which all three laugh.

Marshall and the girl walk in together, but with a quick smile and a "Thank you" the girl is off to see her boyfriend. '_Not that he really deserves any attention from her anyway, shitty mohawk douchebag._' Marshall puts his thoughts to rest, and orders another drink. "I'll have time to sober up." He mumbles silently too himself. On his way back to his table, something catches his eye. Partially drunk or not, the human eye takes notice to sudden fast movements, or movements that are abnormally fast for the scenario - And Marshall's eye has taken notice a man walking in his direction at a hurried pace. "Hey, you. Fag pants." It was Mohawk.

"Jesus Fucking Christ, why have I heard this twice today?" Marshall snorts, not really paying much attention to Mohawk.

"Hey, fuckstick. I'm talking to you." Mohawk continues.

"Yes, yes you are. Your observation skills are quite impeccable. I applaud you." Marshall smirks, taking a sip of his drink.

Mohawk slaps the drink out of Marshall's hand, resulting in a loud crash that brings the entire bar to a halt.

Marshall runs his tongue over his bottom lip, and nods his head slowly. "That wasn't very polite, now was it? I think you owe me another drink."

"Owe you a drink? What? You think you can just talk to my girl alone, that I'm okay with that, and that I am going to buy you a drink? You are out of your fucking mind, dickbag." Mohawk snarls, clenching his fists at his side.

Marshall maintains his composure - Alcohol, strangely enough, helps him do this. He's a calm drunk. "All I did was get her in so she could be with you, since you left her in the cold. You're really making a big deal out of nothing. I tried to do you a favor." Marshall shrugs, giving Mohawk a cheeky smirk. The entire bar is in awe, watching the two go back and forth, not a single man or woman dare open their lips, in anticipation of what will happen next.

Marshall gazes around the room briefly, searching for the girl he had met, so she can verify his story.

"Where is your girl, anyway?" Marshall's tone changes dramatically.

"I sent her back out. I didn't invite her in, so I told her to go back out and wait. What? Have a problem with that?" Mohawk grunts, taking a step towards Marshall.

"Yeah, yeah I do actually." Marshall nods his head, "I want her to see whats going to happen, then maybe she'll see you for the shitbag you are."

"Fine, whatever. Let's go outside then. I want her to see me kick the shit out of you anyway." Mohawk laughs.

"That's probably the best worst idea you have ever had, but I'm down. I'll lead the way." Marshall replies, smug. He walks past Mohawk, who turns and follows suit. All the bar patrons are shuffling to get out of the way of the two. Marshall stops by Rick, the bouncer. "No one goes out, and no one comes in, till you hear my voice give the okay. Got that?" Rick nods his head, and opens the door. The two young men walk out into the cold, and the door promptly shuts and locks behind them.

"A..Ash?" The girl says, confused.

"Shut up, Marceline." Ash replies, pointing at her, however his eyes never leave Marshall, who still has his back turned to him.

Marshall rubs his temples. "Listen, I don't have time to fuck around, so..." Marshall is interrupted when a fist connects to the back of his head. He stumbles forward, and regains his balance. He quickly turns around to see Ash smiling, and walking up to him, fist clenched tight. Marshall spits, and brings his arms up, fists clenched. As soon as Ash is in range, he throws a wide swing with his right arm. Marshall ducks the broad swing, and connects a right jab to Ash's chest. He stumbles backwards, and snarls, just before charging at Marshall. Ash wraps his arms around Marshall's waist and attempts to hoist him into the air, but is cut short by a swift elbow to the spine. Ash collapses onto the ground. He raise up to one knee, his face twisted with anger and rage, when Marceline runs over to him in an attempt to stop the fight. Ash catches her by her jeans front pocket, and throws her down on the ground. She was thrown with so much force, her jeans ripped down the side. Marshall's eyes fill with hatred, and his teeth begin to grind. Marshall (not so) gracefully helped Ash get on his feet, by grabbing his throat and mustering all the strength he had in him to pick him up, and thrust him into the outside wall of the bar. Before Ash could even react, Marshall had his forty-five caliber handgun in his mouth.

"Now you listen to me, and you listen good. If you ever lay your hands on her again, matter of fact, if you ever lay your hands on any woman ever again, I will splatter what little bit of a brain you have all over the fucking wall. Are we clear? Do we have a mutual understanding here?" Marshall snarls, thrusting the pistol a little deeper down Ashes throat every time he finishes a sentence.

Ash's breathing becomes heavy, and his pupils dilated. He nods his head in response - Not much you can really say with the barrel of a gun down our throat.

Marshall pulls the handgun out of Ash's, and holsters it in his waistline, under his jacket. His grip on Ash's neck remains the same for a few more moments, until he feels he has fully made his point, then he releases his hold. Ash gulps one big time, and slowly slides down the wall, staring straight ahead.

"You fucking pissed yourself? Jesus fuck..." Marshall snorts, getting in one last joke at Ash's expense, before turning to deal with Marceline.

Marceline was sitting wide eyed, eyes darting between her boyfriend and Marshall. She had her hands covering her exposed waist and thigh, but Marshall couldn't help but notice she had plaid boxers on. He laughs under his breath.

Marshall fishes around in his jacket pocket and produces a wad of money. He counts out three hundred dollars, and offers it to Marceline. "Here, take it. It's for the inconvenience and the pants." Marceline raises and eyebrow and looks hopelessly lost. "Nice boxers, by the way." Marshall winks.

Marceline shakes her head briefly, but violently. "Uh, yeah. Yeah. Boxers. What just happened?"

Marshall smirks, "Well, I just threatened your boyfriends life if he ever slaps you around, I'm giving you money for the inconvenience, and you're not going to tell the cops about this. That's what just happened. You deserve better than him anyway." Marshall shrugs, glancing back at Ash, who is still speechless staring into space.

"Wh.. What?" Marceline snorts, still looking hopelessly lost.

Marshall sighs, and rubs his temples. "He's going to be fine, his ego is the only thing that is hurt. Look, just take the money, I have somewhere to be." He waves the money back and forth.

"I'm not going to take your money." She says calmly. "I can take care of myself, thanks.

"Fine, whatever." Marshall mumbles, putting the money back in his pocket. He walks past her, heading for the parking lot. He stops mid walk.

"Hey! Rick! You're good to open it up now!" Marshall yells, cupping his hands around his mouth. He waits to make sure Rick heard him, and when he sees the door open, he turns and heads for the parking lot, until a voice catches his attention. He turns to see who is calling him.

"Who the fuck are you?" Marceline asks, now back on her feet.

Marshall laughs and scratches his head, quickly, before responding. "I'm sorry, where are my manners? My name is Marshall Lee."

"Marshall Lee..." Marceline mumbles quietly to herself.

* * *

><p><strong>Authors Note:<strong>  
>Well, readers, I don't really have too much to say, nor reviews to respond to. So this will probably be pretty short.<br>But Marshall is a soldier in organized crime. What a twist.  
>Please read and review, and let me know if any of you liked this! That would be super swell.<br>Have a good one.


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